


Hints And Allegations

by jessebee



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-07
Updated: 2012-04-07
Packaged: 2017-11-03 05:31:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/377835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessebee/pseuds/jessebee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are things we'd prefer never be known....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hints And Allegations

 

 

#

 

 

Tired. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, he was tired.

 

Napoleon shut the car off, pulled the key out of the ignition and slipped it into his pocket, leaned back against the headrest, and shut his eyes. So tired. Which were worse, aches of the body or of the soul?

 

The underground garage was relatively quiet save for the ticking of the engine as it cooled, and the slow, erratic drip of water as it made its way in from the rainstorm outside. He shouldn't be sitting here like this, with his eyes closed, Napoleon knew; despite this being an U.N.C.L.E.-owned building, the garage wasn't exactly secure. He'd move in a minute; he would.

 

He wondered if anyone was still listening in to the bug clipped under the lapel of his suit jacket. Probably not, now that the fun was over with. He snorted, and opened his eyes to stare blindly at the headliner of his car. Fun. Christ. He'd done a lot in his years with U.N.C.L.E., and a few things in the Army, as well, things he wasn't proud of, but this … this ….

 

He shuddered. He needed a shower. Right the hell now.

 

Napoleon got himself out of the car and into the elevator, and punched buttons with more force than necessary. He watched the numbers light up in turn across the panel, staring at the one which represented Illya's floor. No point to pushing that button, even had he wanted company right now – Illya wasn't home. Illya wasn't even in the country at the moment. Thank God.

 

The inside of his own apartment had never looked so good. No place was truly safe, not for a Section Two operative, but this was near enough. Napoleon shot the locks and set the security codes, then leaned back against the door and shut his eyes again, not bothering to turn on a light. He ran his fingers under his lapel and picked the flat little electronic "ear" from its hiding place. A marvel of U.N.C.L.E.'s advanced technology, it was, and this one more than most – it was one of the first of the latest improved series, better range, better clarity. Clarity. The better for the folks in the surveillance van to hear every – single – whisper.

 

The disk snapped between his suddenly tightened fingers, the sound cracking like a shot in the quiet room.

 

"Section Eight won't like that very much."

 

His gun was out and aimed by pure instinct before his mind overrode it. "Illya." Napoleon dropped his arm and blew out a breath, adrenaline skittering along his nerves. "Jesus."

 

"No, you were correct the first time," Illya said. The Russian was a darker shadow in the depths of Napoleon's leather wing chair, face a pale blur and blonde hair gathering what little light filtered through the curtains.

 

"You know, if you're looking for a quick ticket out of this life, that's an excellent way to get one," Napoleon said, holstering his gun and coming around to sink down onto the couch before sheer relief could take his knees out from under him. "Nice to see you, partner. When did you get back?"

 

"Some time ago. Soon enough, in fact, to be invited along on a surveillance party." Illya's voice was soft and very, very even.

 

Napoleon froze, relief congealing into a cold, sick shock. "You … were in the van." It wasn't a question.

 

"… yes."

 

Shock tumbled into something distinctly like horror. As if on cue, thunder rumbled and the rain picked up again, spattering like a pebble barrage against the apartment windows. Napoleon bent his head, suddenly far too heavy for his neck to hold; he needed a hand to support it. "Christ," he whispered, and the sibilant reflected from his palm along with the sour heat of his own breath. "Christ."

 

"A strange thing, though," Illya said, still quite softly, after a minute of silence. "There was some trouble had with the equipment. New designs can be – temperamental."

 

"Equipment," Napoleon repeated after a moment, numbly.

 

"Hmm." Leather creaked as Illya rose. The clink of ice and crystal announced his position some moments later, as did the faint light he turned on, by Napoleon's bar. "The backup tape failed to function, and the transmitter as well, although it appears that possibly it was simply never turned on. Careless, really." Light footsteps, and cool hardness pressed against Napoleon's other hand. It opened without any input from Napoleon's brain, and Illya set the glass into it. More steps and creaking as Illya resumed his seat. "But then, I am very tired, you know. It was quite a long flight home."

 

Napoleon's fingers tightened spasmodically around the glass. He tilted back and took a swig and then another, and then banged the empty glass down on the coffee table as the alcohol – whisky, he identified with very little interest – burned its way down his throat. He coughed once, then looked at his partner, whose expression gave nothing away. "Say what you came to say, Illya."

 

Illya reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled something out, tossed it onto the table between them. A reel of tape.

 

Napoleon stared at it, his stomach twisting. "And…the backup failed?"

 

"It did."

 

"You were …."

 

"There was one other person in the van," Illya said, reading Napoleon's mind, as he frequently did. "But we have … come to an agreement." The faintest thread of amusement colored his voice. "Should a rumor drift … the source would not be in question."

 

Napoleon prided himself on being the master of the _angle_ ; it was what he did. But the mathematics weren't making all that much sense here, or not a sense that made sense. "Waverly will want a report," he said, watching his partner but still seeing no upset, no – disgust. Only the usual cool, Slavic calm.

 

"And he will get one." The faint light allowed no color, turning Illya's blue eyes gray. "And only he. Eyes-only. The information is critical. The method by which it was obtained is not."

 

Enough of this dance. No matter what the Russian's reasons, it was time to get this over with. "Thank you for your discretion, but you can tell Waverly the method. He knows full well what I'm – capable of."

 

The blond head tilted. "I didn't mean that I would not – "

 

Napoleon barreled right over him. "And what about you? Now that you know what I'm capable of?"

 

"Pardon?"

 

"You'll want a new partner, of course. I'll – "

 

" _What_?" The Russian finally sounded, and looked, shocked. "I _don't_ want a new partner, of course, _why_ would I?"

 

"Maybe because you just listened to the current one seduce – hell, practically _rape_ – another man?" The words rang through the apartment, bitter on Napoleon's tongue and underscored by the driving rain.

 

Illya breathed deep, in and out, and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "What I heard, Napoleon," he said quietly, "was one of the best agents I have ever known taking a terrible gamble to try and save what had become a very critical mission, and succeeding. A mission I could not help you with; you don't know what it cost me to stay in that van. There seemed no way out of that situation, and yet you found one _and_ retrieved the information. And saved a man from a violence that would have scarred him deeply."

 

Napoleon snorted. "What I did wasn't violence?"

 

"It was not." Illya's tone was firm. "It was going to happen, one way or another, but because of you it happened with great skill and much more kindness than had it been one of the others. Would that all – initiations were like that. You made the best of an impossible situation, my friend. There was no way out but through it."

 

"The best. Yes, I am the best, aren't I? Everyone says so." Napoleon snorted again, and made himself meet Illya's eyes. "I acquired those skills from somewhere, partner."

 

"Well, yes," Illya replied, in his "you're stating the obvious" tone.

 

Best to be blunt now, a quick rip rather than a slow peel. "And you still want to share a hotel room with me? A bed, even? With a man who sometimes sleeps with other men?"

 

Illya stared at him and then, amazingly, he smiled. "You … truly don't know. Napoleon, I have been labeled many things in my life, and more than a few of them, sadly, are true. But 'hypocrite' is not one of them."

 

When the words, and their unspoken meanings, finally registered, the relief was so enormous that it left no room for air. "Oh," Napoleon said, faintly. He laid his arms down on his knees and then his head against them, dizzy. A whisper of sound and the cushions next to him sank under Illya's weight, and a broad, warm hand came to rest between Napoleon's shoulder blades. "Thank you," he said eventually, when he thought his voice would hold.

 

"For what? But you are welcome," Illya replied gravely. "It is late. You should eat something, if you have not."

 

Napoleon had to smile at that. "'m too tired to eat, and not sure that I could, anyway. I just want to shower. And lay down."

 

Illya sniffed. "A shower, certainly. And I will fix you something."

 

Napoleon sat up slowly. Illya's hand slipped away, and he found that he missed the warmth. "What are you now, my mother?"

 

"That gray, my hair is not. Yet. Up you go, now."

 

 

#

 

 

Nothing changed between them and yet, in some small way Napoleon wasn't looking at too closely, something did. He had always known Illya Kuryakin for a desirable man – hell, anybody with working eyes knew that. And while Napoleon's own tastes tended to tilt towards blondes, he'd never allowed himself any serious intent toward his partner, not really.

 

Did he flirt, though? Of course he did; Napoleon Solo flirted with the world, in varying degrees – to flirt was to lay ground for potential manipulation, and manipulation was what he did best. What drove the spy & enforcement Game, in all its ephemeral, shifting, thankless glory. What had made him the New York office's Chief Enforcement Agent while still in the field – a thing almost unheard of – and Alexander Waverly's heir apparent. A master of intent, of influencing the way the fox would jump. A master of secrets: knowing everyone, known by few.

 

Except that now, there was Illya.

 

Illya, who knew Napoleon nearly as well as anyone could, in almost everything but the Biblical sense, anyway. Who knew not every scrap of childhood, but the important things, what made one Napoleon Solo tick. Who had in turn given those things back to Napoleon, as well. He knew his reserved Russian partner nearly as well as anyone could. Or so he had believed, until now.

 

Enter their latest mission.

 

Enter timing gone just the slightest bit wrong, and Illya captured.

 

Enter one THRUSH scientist with a hypodermic full of a brand-new veridical in one hand and a knife in the other, and a taste for blackmail.

 

"Tell me, Mr. Kuryakin, your darkest secret. The thing of which you are most deeply ashamed. The thing for which you can never, ever be forgiven."

 

And from his hiding place, waiting for a chance at rescue, Napoleon listened in growing horror as Illya, still weakly fighting his bonds and blue eyes rolling like those of a frightened horse, did just exactly that.

 

"What? What is this now? In English!" the scientist snapped as Illya's words stuttered into the fluid gutturals of his mother tongue, overlaid with the choppiness of a young child's speech. The THRUSH turned, arms waving in disgust, until his back was to the ventilation shaft, and Napoleon, gun at the ready, had his chance. The man crumpled to the floor with a gurgle, the knife skidding away under the contraption Illya was strapped to.

 

Napoleon dropped lightly into the room and made a beeline for the recording equipment on the far wall. He yanked out the tape he found inside and stuffed it into his pocket, and slid an incendiary into the machine in exchange.

 

Illya was still muttering when Napoleon came back to him. "Illya. _Illya_."

 

The blond head turned away. " _Nyet,_ " Illya moaned raggedly, eyes squeezed shut. " _Nyet, pozhalujsta, ya sozhaleyu, ne delayut_ –"

 

Napoleon's chest ached, but he throttled it all back: he'd deal with the revelation – and his own feelings – later. He grabbed Illya's head in both hands and turned him back. "Illya Nicovetch. Look at me. _Smotrite na men'a._ "

 

Blue eyes came open slowly. Even more slowly, recognition filtered in. "Na-pasha?" A child's derivative of Napoleon's name.

 

" _Da_ ," Napoleon said soft and distinctly. " _Bud'te tihi_."

 

Relief washed across his partner's face. " _Spacibo_ ," Illya whispered.

 

"You're welcome." Napoleon went to work on the cuffs around Illya's wrists. "We need to leave, now. Can you move?"

 

" _Da, konechno_." Illya demonstrated with a clumsy gesture and Napoleon groaned. Ask a simple question, get a literal, veridical-induced answer.

 

 

 

A couple of hours of escape, a couple of hours of unconsciousness, and now about a half-hour of listening to Illya being violently ill as the drug worked its way out of his system just made the perfect capper to the day. Napoleon sat on the bed with his head leaned back against the wall of the dingy cabin and a mattress spring poking him in the ass, his eyes closed, thinking. It had taken almost no time for him, looking through the lenses of age and experience, to come to a truce with what he'd heard there in that lab, the bitter thing torn from the depths of Illya's memories.

 

But Illya, quite obviously, never had.

 

The silence from the tiny washroom was longer now and Napoleon sat up, swinging his feet to the floor. Time to check on his Russian friend.

 

Illya was huddled into a miserable Slavic bundle in the tiny space between toilet and tub, head pressed to the porcelain. The air was rank with the odors of sweat and illness, not to mention dodgy plumbing. Napoleon drew a small glass of water, then sat on the edge of the tub and laid a gentle hand on the back of Illya's neck. His partner's skin was very hot.

 

"Go 'way, N'pol'n. L'me die in peace."

 

"And explain to Waverly how I lost you in the bathroom of a cheap rental cabin in the middle of West Bullfuck, Missouri? That brave, I'm not. Here, rinse your mouth, and don't swallow."

 

It took both hands, but Illya managed. Napoleon flushed the results, took the glass back and refilled it, and set it down within reach, on the tank of the commode. He grabbed one of the thin washcloths and doused it with cold water, then resumed his seat on the side of the bathtub and laid the cloth across his partner's neck. A mumble that might have been a thank you, and Napoleon patted one strong shoulder.

 

"How long … were you there?"

 

Napoleon resisted the urge to sigh. "Long enough." Something distinctly like a curse was heard, and Napoleon squeezed the shoulder he still held. "How old were you?"

 

A long silence, broken only by their breathing and the abrupt drumroll of rain, as the forecast storm decided to arrive. Napoleon wasn't at all sure Illya would answer him. But eventually the words came, muffled by his partner's crossed arms. " _Shest'. Sem', vozmozhno_."

 

Six. Seven, perhaps. "You were a child trying to survive a war zone, partner."

 

"Should have found another way."

 

"You did what you had to, to live."  
  


"Others lived as well." A shaky breath. "I doubt they all betrayed their country to manage it."

 

 _Oh, Illya_. "I doubt that they were all trying to save a sister, too." Napoleon leaned down until his nose nearly touched Illya's tangled hair, breathing in the stink of his friend's fear and exhaustion, and beneath those the warm smell of Illya himself. "You were a _child_ , Illya – how much did you even know that was useful to them? You were trying to eat and survive and find your family. And I, for one, am pretty damned grateful that you did survive. Cut yourself a little slack," he said softly.

 

"You … will be wanting a new partner."

 

Napoleon squeezed both shoulders this time, in lieu of shaking him. "Of course I won't, _durak_. I've only just gotten _this_ one properly trained. Even if you never have learned to appreciate catsup."

 

More silence, and then another deep breath, less shaky this time. "Thank you," Illya whispered, and Napoleon smiled as a previous conversation came back to him.

 

"For what? But you're welcome, anyway. Think you feel up to trying for the bed now?"

 

The blond head shook, very slightly. "Few more minutes." But he was leaning now against Napoleon's leg.

 

Napoleon retrieved the washcloth and wrung it under cold water from the tub faucet this time, and draped it back down across Illya's neck. He stared down at the dear, stubborn, bowed head, and closed his own eyes against the complicated knot of emotion in his chest. "Whatever you need, my friend. I'm here."

 

 

_fini_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Russian phrases rendered phonetically:

 

nyet, pozhalujsta, ya sozhaleyu, ne delayut = no, please, I'm sorry, do not

Smotrite na men'a = look at me

bud'te tihi = be quiet

da, konechno = yes, of course

durak = fool

 

 #  #  #  #  #  #

**Author's Note:**

> First posting/publication of this story, 4-7-12.  
> For mature readers only, deals with issues of male/male sex and dubious consent.
> 
> Summary: Pieces of Napoleon's present and Illya's past emerge to test the partnership.
> 
> (found lurking on the hard drive, never quite finished, woefully unbetaed or edited)


End file.
